I can't be torn down
by heggyy
Summary: Dean is struggling after his dismissal from the Gryffindor Quidditch Team. But now he has a plan that will get him a position as Chaser and punish the infamous Harry Potter.


**_This is for Round 8 of the Quidditch League. My potion was Skele-Gro and my prompts were:_**

 ** _2: envelope_**

 ** _6: raindrops_**

 ** _10: Demi Lovato 'Skyscraper'_**

 _"Umm...Dean? Now Katie's back we won't need you for the team."_

The wind whips in my robes and the raindrops are like slices of glass as the whip my hands.

 _"You played really well but Katy was originally chosen."_

The few weak beams of sunlight are swept away by another wave of wind and sleet, shaking my rubbish broom. Any other students practising had long since sheltered in the broom cupboard or returned to the castle for dinner, but I don't even dip in my altitude. I'm closer to the clouds up here.

 _"You can try again next year."_

He's not going to tear me down. I'm not giving in to his biased bullying or obvious favouritism. I finish a last lap around the pitch and then swoop down, just pulling out of the dive in time to land neatly on my feet. I know I'm good. So why aren't I on the team?

I put the rubbish broom back in the cupboard. I can't afford a proper one, so I have to make do with the school ones, which the first years are taught on. They're no match for Nimbus 2000s let alone Firebolts. But not all of us are famous enough to have expensive brooms as presents. I've begged my parents for years, but they just don't understand what Quidditch means to me. Instead every year my Dad buys me a season ticket to Arsenal, always in the same red envelope, and my Mum buys me the iconic red Arsenal shirt and scarf, and I pretend to be ecstatic when I'd rather have tickets to the Tutshill Tornadoes and a new broom or at least the Tutshill Tornado badge to pin on my robes, like all the other sixth years.

I walk past the Grand Hall and it's alive with chatting and the clatter of knives and forks. I'm starving but this is the best time for doing things I don't want the whole school knowing about, so I force myself away from the delicious smells and into the dark but empty corridors.

I push open the cupboard to the store room. It's full of old Quidditch things; photos from past teams, worn books on broom repair, brochures on brooms that are now outdated, parts of brooms discarded on the floor and the old Quidditch robes that are ribbed and faded. I find it ironic that I'm in here, a discarded player who was no longer needed.

The room is cold and the only light a small window too high up to look out of, but the room is unused and out of the way; perfect for what I need. Hidden behind a large trunk with old Keepers' gloves is my Pewter cauldron simmering gently. It's invisible from the door, only visible if you walk right round or hear the sound of the mixture bubbling. I hurry round and stir it quickly. I've already missed two stages of the potion brewing; adding the Chinese cabbage roots during its first week of brewing and the Essence of Comfrey last night, both of which were absent from the students' store cupboard and Professor Snape's store cupboard. The potion was several shades lighter than the suggest colour in the book – a pale blue instead of the suggested cobalt hue. I was never good at Potions, especially the more fiddly ones. I flip through my tattered Potions book (a new one was just another thing my parents couldn't afford) until I find the page at the back for _'Potion of Advantageous Improvement'_. It wasn't the potion I was originally going to make; a Sleeping Draught or Essence of Insanity were easier, and I had ample opportunities to slip them into Katie Bell's breakfast, but even for me that seemed low. And if this went wrong at least I only had myself to blame.

The recipe called next for Flobberworm Mucus and one finely chopped rat's spleen, both of which are in the store cupboard and easy to prepare. I tip them in next and carefully stir twice anti-clockwise and then three times clockwise, stopping after ten for twenty seconds. Yet when I'm finished it's far from the now should be bright pink, settling for a murky grey, large bubbles spurting from the surface. I turn the heat down a little with a flick of my wand. It's hard to get precise temperatures squatted in a dingy room, and my cauldron already had the residue of the Draught of Living Sleep they had been practising for in their last Potions lesson. Maybe that was the problem.

Once I've completed everything I can do for that night I head back up to the Gryffindor common room. The potion should be ready by tomorrow, and I can't wait. It should make me stronger better and more accurate in my flying. All I have to do is show Harry how good I am and he'll let me back on the team. Maybe even kick out Ginny. I'm so excited I struggle to sleep, but eventually I drift off, dreaming of my success.

The next morning I wake early and hurry immediately to the old Quidditch store. The potion has settled to a pale green colour but there's nothing I can do now. I get a glass vial out and fill it up. Should I drink my first dose now? It lasts up to one day, but the cauldron is quite small and I need enough to get me to the Quidditch final. I empty the vial back on and drape an old travelling cloak over the cauldron before exiting the room. I can go back later for it.

The common room is filling up when I return. Sean is sitting in the corner finishing the Transfiguration homework, so I go and sit with him. He grunts a greeting but doesn't look up, his quill scratching furiously.

"Got to finish this by our first lesson." He says his voice laboured with concentration. He stops to leaf through a book and then turns back to his parchment. I'm hungry but it's still early and the Grand Hall will be empty, so I decide to stick around for a while. Suddenly I hear a loud voice behind me.

"If we win against the Slytherins by more than one hundred points but they win against Ravenclaw we'll be in the final."

"But if they lose to Hufflepuff..."

"And they've got a strong team this year."

I turn round slowly to see Harry Potter and Ron Weasley talking loudly, although I'd recognise their voices anywhere. They stride arrogantly across the room and plonk themselves down in the best armchairs in the room, right by the fire.

"And the Hufflepuffs beat the Ravenclaws in the first match this year." Ron says loudly, his voice easily filling the room. Nobody else bothered by it.

"But we have the strongest team since Wood left." Harry says confidently.

My stomach turns to ice. Is he really that cocky? He thinks I'm inferior, that I'm just there to fill in for Katie? No. I'm not going to let him tear me down. The whole school may dote on The Chosen One, but I see him for what he really is. A pathetic bully. I'm going to come back stronger than ever and I'm going to score the winning goal for Gryffindor. And there's nothing Potter or Weasley can do about it.

I watch from the rain splattered window as tiny specks of red file disorderly down the path and into the Quidditch Stadium. The Gryffindors going to their practise. I wonder if they can feel something is about to change, that a Quidditch star is about to join them. I turn away from the window and crouch by the cauldron, scooping up the concoction before throwing the cloak over it and leaving the room.

I must look suspicious as I pass people in the corridor, the vile carefully tucked under my robes so it doesn't spill. When should I drink it? I'm going to go to the pitch and show them what I can do, so they have to let me back on the team, but I still need to steal someone's broom – a better one than the school ones.

I stop and tip the vial down my throat. It tastes bitter and sour and smells repugnant, and so acidic I think it's going to corrode my teeth. I can feel it slipping down my throat, and it burns inside me. I scream out, but my voice is hoarse and scratchy. My breakfast seems to be bubbling in my stomach and I fall onto my knees to retch but nothing comes out. Vomiting would be a relief, but the potion is trapped inside of me, wrecking havoc. My muscles are tense and sweat is dripping off me, though I'm shivering and my limbs stiff. I writhe in agony, trying to make the pain stop. I'm going to die. Suddenly everything goes limp. The pain has subdued to a dull ache, but I can't move. I try and sit up but it's like I have no muscles. I can see the ceiling, and the wood feels cool under my skin, but it's like I'm trapped. Will someone find me? Do I want them to?

I try and open my mouth to scream for help, but no words come out. I close my eyes, but my head doesn't stop spinning, a kaleidoscope of colours making me feel dizzy. Suddenly I feel cool hands on my shoulders.

"Dean? Dean? Are you alright?" The voice sounds so far away.

"What's happened to him?" Another voice asks. "What's he done?"

What's wrong? What do I look like?

There's some shouting and I feel footsteps reverberating on the floor.

"Move out! Move out of the way. We need to get him to the Hospital Wing!"

I faintly recognise the voice, like I've caught a fragment of a dream that I'd forgotten about. Does she teach me?

"Someone get Poppy!" The voice comes again.

She definitely teaches me? But what?

Suddenly I feel myself being floated up. My head flops back and I can't support it. I open my eyes and it's lighter than before. We're in another corridor.

"Quickly!" The female voice says again.

"What happened to him?" Another voice says.

"I'm not sure. Madame Pompfrey will know."

Then I come in hard contact with a bed. It's comfortable after the hard floor, and the soft cool pillow my head rests on stops the spinning.

"What on earth?"

"Hush!"

I squint through my eyes and see a blinding white. I scrunch them shut again. Too much effort.

Fingers are prodding my limbs, but it doesn't hurt. I try opening my eyes again. I can see a white figure at the end of my bed, bustling around. Another figure is standing beside me. Finally I remember who she is - Professor McGonagall.

"The bones have been corroded." The woman in white says abruptly. I try and sit up a little, but a hand forces my head back down.

"Just lie still Dean. You've had a nasty accident."

I don't want to be patronised. What's the matter? And when can I get back to Quidditch?

"Do we need to take him to St Mungo's?"

"Skele-Gro should be enough."

There's some more rustling, and then rough hands are opening my mouth surprisingly gently.

"Swallow this Dean."

A hard metal spoon is clanks against my teeth and a liquid dribble off it down my throat. It tastes disgusting, but nothing like the potion I've just had.

"Your bones have been corroded Dean." A voice says loudly, like I'm deaf. "You're going to take Skele-Gro which should grow your bones back. It's going to be unpleasant but you'll be as right as rain in no time at all."

I want to ask her why I can't talk or move or swallow. I want to ask her what went wrong with my potions, and what I look like. I want to ask if the Gryffindors are still training.

"Just try and sleep now." A third voice says. They're speaking too quickly and I can't distinguish whose talking, so I just close my eyes.

It doesn't last long; within seconds there's a tingling sensation all over my body, like pins and needles but inside. It's uncomfortable but not painful, yet makes sleep hard. Eventually I settle for just closing my eyes and imagining I'm flying above the Quidditch pitch.

I must have fallen asleep, because when I wake it's darker outside and the beds either side of me are filled. The pain in my legs and arms are worse, but I manage to lift my head a little. Professor McGonagall is sitting beside my bed, her head absorbed in a book. She leaps up when I move.

"Just lie still Dean." She repeats.

"Can-?" I croak my voice parched and scratchy.

"Yes Dean?"

"Prop," I try again.

Professor McGonagall props me up with some pillows, until I'm sitting comfortably. It's only now that I see the full extent of the damage. It's so disgusting I want to retch.

My limbs are utterly useless; they have been replaced by lifeless strips of flesh coloured rubber. I try and move my left leg, but it doesn't respond – doesn't even twitch slightly. The only think that convinces me that they're mine are the fingers and toes that seem miles away, utterly uncontrollable. I think back to the hours I spent over the summer in the gym, targeting the muscles needed to play Quidditch, and the even longer time I spent flying my broom, making sure I could get the quaffle in every time. All gone. All a waste.

Professor McGonagall is looking at me anxiously, taking in my disgusted face and wrinkled nose.

"You're going to be fine Dean. It only looks bad at the moment."

I nod slowly, trying not to sound rude. What does she know? She wasn't kicked out of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team.

"I was the Seeker on the Gryffindor Quidditch Team once." Professor McGonagall says slowly, looking out of the window nostalgically. "Played five seasons."

I stare at her. I can't imagine her; an old woman sitting bolt upright in a hard wooden chair, her glasses hanging round her neck on a chain, her grey hair pinned up in a bun, racing round a Quidditch pitch on a broom.

"We won the cup twice, but the other three years were bitter disappointments."  
She doesn't understand. She doesn't know real failure.

"I know how tough it can be to make the team. It's a vicious process. Hard hours. Always striving to be better. And the pressure is phenomenal."

I nod, but I'm not really sure where she's going with her lecture.

"What did you take Dean? Was it a potion? Did one of the other years give it to you?"

I pull away from her gaze, staring at the polished wood floor. I'm not answering any of her questions.

"If you just tell me you can get better so much quicker. There may have been something in it that causes long term damage, but if we know now then we can treat it."

I glare at the floor.

"Nobody's going to get into trouble."

The floor is so shiny the evening light is reflected in it.

Professor McGonagall sighs and stands up, exhaustion creaking in her every move. I feel guilty; she's just trying to help. But I can't bring myself to admit to her my failings.

"I'll be back later." She says, sounding defeated. I don't say anything, and she walks briskly away, brushing out of the Hospital Wing.

There's not enough light left outside to see the trees or the ground, but the stars are out and bright. I can see them, and I know that soon I will be flying amongst them.


End file.
